Allo, Hogan
by Book 'em Again
Summary: Papa Bear and Nighthawk join forces as they attempt to carry out a mission from London and also return the downed British airmen hiding in René's café to England. However, their alliance is threatened when a certain painting becomes the prize in a high stakes billiard tournament.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Allies**

"'Allo!"

René Artois, owner of the Café René, jumped and dropped a pile of rolled up posters to the ground. Standing in the middle of his café – where the plethora of Germans milling around in the town square could see them through the window – were the two British airmen! By some minor miracle, they were at least dressed in civilian clothing, but that was of little comfort to René. For if the Germans figured out that he was still hiding them, he would be arrested and shot – again!

"What are you doing here? You can't be here!" he yelled while running to the windows and pulling the curtains shut.

"We're hungry," the taller one said. But, because the words were in English, René didn't understand a single word. One would think that, considering the length of time that the two men had been hiding in France, they would have bothered to learn at least a word or two of French.

Slowing down his speech, he said, "You must go to the cellar!" Then pulling his apron up so it covered his face, he added, "Hide. You must go and hide."

The airmen looked at each other in confusion so René gave up, grabbed each one by an arm and forcibly shoved them in the direction of the cellar. That they understood. As soon as they disappeared, he wandered over to the bar and poured himself a glass of cognac. What he would give to be rid of those British idiots! They had been hiding in his café for far too long. But every time the Résistance came up with a plan to get them back England, it failed – spectacularly.

Finishing his drink, he bent down to pick up the dropped posters from the floor when a voice called out from the stairs. "Let me help you with that."

René looked up to see his petite waitress approaching him. "Thank you, Mimi."

She unrolled one of the posters and asked, "Do you really think this billiard tournament plan will work?"

Taking a poster for himself, he tacked it on his front window. "I wish I knew. But Michelle has promised that someone is coming who will help us send the airmen back to England. We will disguise them as billiard players and then, after the tournament, they can leave town without anyone giving them a second glance."

The waitress nodded and then jumped in a failed attempt to hang another poster.

Moving quickly, René took the poster from her and ordered, "Get a chair."

Mimi grinned and soon was standing on top of the chair with her arms outstretched. "René, come hold me in your arms. Press your body against my body."

His blood grew hot at the thought of that lithe little body pressed against his. But as tempting as Mimi's invitation was, he already had an appointment and it was one he did not want to miss. "No, not now, you are needed in the kitchen. Madame Edith is making pot-au-feu and you remember what happened the last time?"

Mimi shuddered as she stepped off of the chair. "How could I forget? We were all spitting up slivers of bones the rest of the night."

"Go. I doubt the Germans will be as forgiving if it happens again."

After Mimi disappeared into the kitchen, he quickly checked to see that no one was around and then disappeared into the back room. There, he was greeted by the beautiful sight of his other waitress, Yvette, looking at him with unmistakable desire in her eyes.

"René!" she growled as she flung herself into his arms and they both writhed with pleasure.

There was nothing better than the feel of her warm, firm body pressed against his. But all too soon their perfect moment was ruined by his wife's screams. "René! What are you doing with that serving girl in your arms?"

Jumping back, René forced himself to think of an excuse – any excuse. Sometimes it was nice to be married to an extremely gullible woman. "You stupid woman! Can't you see that this poor girl is distraught over the thought of all the seedy characters a billiard table in our café will attract?"

Right on cue, Yvette immediately began to tremble with fear. Edith's face softened as she looked upon the waitress with sympathy. "Oh, I am sorry. You're trembling. You may go upstairs and lay down for a few minutes."

"Thank you, Madam Edith," Yvette said, before hurrying from the room.

Edith turned back to husband. "I'm sorry, René. It is just with all this stress, I thought the worst of you. Could you not hold me in your arms so that we might forget our troubles for awhile?"

René forced himself not to grimace. Any attraction he had once felt for his wife had disappeared years ago. "Not now, Edith. There is still a lot of work to do before we open tonight."

Edith sighed. "I know, but why can it not be between us like it was before? Back when we were young and the fires of our love burned every night."

"Well, for one, the village thinks that I'm dead and that I'm my own identical twin brother. It would cause quite a scandal."

"René!"

He cringed. Had his wife finally figured things out? If he grabbed the painting, he might be able to make it to the Spanish border, escape this war and live off the proceeds. However, his panic subsided when he noticed that his wife was pointing at the window. Unfortunately, it shot back up again when he saw who was standing there.

The local leader of French Résistance, Michelle Dubois, had arrived and that meant trouble. All too frequently, her schemes required him to be in the thick of things, risking his neck. But he couldn't refuse her. She would have him branded a collaborator and then she would shoot him. He lived a dangerous life.

After coming through the window, Michelle gestured for him and his wife to huddle close. "Now listen very carefully, I will say this only once. A man named Papa Bear will arrive in Nouvion tonight. He and his men will stay in your café as guests until their mission is complete."

"What?" René exclaimed. "Are you mad? I can't hide any more people in my café. If you haven't noticed, I'm already hiding two British airmen and a forger for you. This is too much."

"You will not need to hide them. They will come in disguise and stay as guests in your upstairs rooms."

"But Yvette and Mimi need those rooms to entertain the Germans. I run a business not a charity."

Michelle shrugged. "If you don't want the assistance of a man whose operations have helped hundreds of downed airmen escape to England then I will find someone else to help."

That got René's attention. If this Papa Bear was the man that Michelle had promised him would come then he couldn't refuse. Not if it meant that he would finally be rid of those British idiots. "This Papa Bear, he will return the airmen back to England?"

"I'm certain of it."

"Good," Edith said. "They have been stuck here for far too long. They are needed back in the air. We'll do this for France."

Smiling slightly, Michelle said, "Now Papa Bear will identify himself by saying: I would like to taste some of your local Munster cheese."

René was shocked. "What sort of code it that? Munster cheese is produced in the east!"

"A good one. No one else will be looking for Munster cheese on the coast. Now you will reply: I am all out of Munster, but I can offer you some of our specially made Roquefort."

It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. None of these codes ever made sense. Any man who knew anything about French cheeses would be able to tell that they were speaking nonsense. But there was no point in complaining further; Michelle was one of the most stubborn women he had ever met.

Hopefully this Papa Bear would be easier to work with.

* * *

Colonel Robert E. Hogan of the United States Army Air Forces, also known as Papa Bear, was enjoying the drive through the German countryside. While Stalag Thirteen was his station, it was nice to get out once in a while, especially when the 'enemy' volunteered to be his chauffer.

"Turn left at the next intersection," Kinch called out from the back, a map in his lap.

Schultz frowned from the driver's seat. "But that isn't the way to the Kaiser Road."

Hogan smirked; poor Schultz had been under the impression that he was taking a work party out to fix some potholes. He was soon going to find out just how mistaken he was. "We aren't going to the Kaiser Road."

"We aren't?"

"No, we're going to France." LeBeau leaned forward and placed his hands on the guard's shoulders. "Imagine beautiful women, good food, wine..." There was no mistaking the excitement in the POW's voice as he talked about his homeland.

"France!" Schultz cried as he slammed on the brakes.

The men jerked in their seats as the truck came to a sudden halt. Newkirk said, "Schultzie, you're blocking the road!"

"Yeah, we could get in a wreck and we wouldn't want that," Carter added.

Schultz, however, refused to budge. "We aren't going to France. I'm turning this truck around and we're going straight back to camp."

Hogan held back a chuckle. Schultz looked so cute when he tried to order around the prisoners. "Schultz, did or did not Kommandant Klink order you to get us out of his hair?"

"He did. And he also said that he needed a work party to fix the roads."

"But that only keeps us away from camp for a couple of hours. Klink would much prefer that we disappeared for a couple of days," Carter reasoned.

"Days!" Schultz whimpered as he pleaded, "Colonel Hogan, we cannot leave camp for a couple of days.

"I don't see why you are so concerned, you're just following orders."

"Orders! The Kommandant didn't literally mean for me to get you out of his hair."

"We know that," Newkirk quipped. "Klink doesn't have any hair for us to be in!"

"I can't let you escape."

"Escape?" LeBeau asked. "Who said anything about escape? Just think of this as a leave. We're tired of Klink. Klink is tired of us. We stay away for a couple of days and when we come back everything will be better than ever."

Schultz groaned and closed his eyes in what appeared to be silent prayer.

Ever the practical one of the group, Kinch said, "Sir, since we're stopped, now might be a good time to change."

Schultz opened his eyes as a new panic set in. "Colonel Hogan, I'm just a sergeant. I cannot impersonate an officer. Not again."

Hogan grinned. "No worries; you don't need to change. You and Newkirk will be sergeants."

Schultz looked over his shoulder at the Englishman with surprise. "But Newkirk is a corporal."

Newkirk grinned as he pulled on the German uniform. "In the RAF, I'm a corporal. In the German army, I'm a sergeant."

"You can't just give yourself a promotion."

"Why not?" Carter asked. "I'm going to be a major."

Schultz snorted at the American. "If you are a major then Kinchloe is a general."

"Sorry, Schultz," Kinch said, "not today. LeBeau and I are going to be French peasants."

"Not today…" The German guard shuddered as he realized that meant that the colored POW had masqueraded as a German general before.

Fully dressed as Lieutenant Hoganbecker, Hogan assumed his German officer persona. "Sergeant," he barked, "vacate this seat immediately."

Without thinking, Schultz saluted his superior officer and slid down from the seat before realizing that the lieutenant was really one of his prisoners. By then, the guard knew that he had lost. They were going to France and there was nothing that he could do to stop them. So when the truck started up again, he tentatively asked from his new seat in the back, "Do I want to know where we are going?"

"Nowhere in particular," Hogan replied as he drove west. "Just a small French village called Nouvion."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: The Caf** **é**

Even though it meant plenty of money in the till, René could never get used to his café being full of Germans. From the group of rowdy sergeants by the piano to the town's kommandant, Colonel von Strohm, sharing a meal with his very disinterested secretary, Private Helga Geerhart, each table, chair and stool was filled with a man in German uniform. The locals who were well aware that the café was a popular spot with the German troops went elsewhere.

A bell rang as his front door opened and René groaned when he saw who had stepped into his café. It was Lieutenant Gruber - the man who fancied him. Gruber was all smiles as he walked up to his favorite spot at the bar. "Good evening, René. It truly is the perfect evening for a ride in my little tank. With the ventilators open, the cool breeze is quite refreshing."

The hint couldn't have been more obvious if the officer had ended his words with a wink. Ignoring the invitation, the Frenchman quickly poured the man a drink. "Here's your cognac, Lieutenant."

"Thank you. I have a question about the upcoming billiard tournament," Gruber said with a nod towards the closest poster. "May I sign up?"

René began cleaning a glass. "Oh, you play?"

"A little," Gruber admitted. "But I have always enjoying watching. I'm sure that I could give you a few pointers on your form." And there was the wink René had been dreading. "I know, we have a table over at the chateau, you should come over for some practice."

René held back a grimace. He did not need the image of Gruber admiring men's behinds in his head, especially with the man so eager on finding an opportunity to admire his own. What he did need was an excuse to get the German to back off without alienating him. "Thank you for the offer, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid I can't come over. It would hardly be fair; since I am running this tournament, I can't be seen playing favorites with any of the participants, you know."

"You are always so thoughtful, René! I understand. We will move our game until after the tournament then."

René nodded, confident that by then he'd have thought of another excuse to avoid the officer's attentions.

When Gruber joined his CO, two more soldiers entered the room and found a table against the far wall. They were new; the one was rather scruffy and the other very fat for a soldier. Neither looked like fighting men. However, he wouldn't complain about the stupid things the Germans did. It would make it easier for France to win in the end. So with a gesture, he sent Yvette over to make sure the newcomers were aware of all that his establishment had to offer.

Turning back to the bar, René heard the door open again and this time, it was a pair of officers that caused a group of privates near the door to quickly jump to their feet to salute and announce the arrivals.

 _Great_ , the Frenchman thought, _just what I need - more Germans that I have to be nice too._

The Major looked slightly scary as he glared at the room and slapped his leather gloves against his palm. "What does one have to do to get service around here?"

The Lieutenant at his side added with a shout, "Where's the proprietor?"

René could tell from the tone of their voices that the officers wanted something, but unfortunately he didn't speak German. In desperation, he shot a pleading look toward Lieutenant Gruber, who was more than happy to come to his aid.

"Sirs, allow me to introduce you to René Artois, the owner of this café."

"We require a table."

"They can sit with us," Colonel von Strohm said from his seat. He was the only person in the room not standing.

Gruber smiled. "They wish to sit with the Colonel."

René kicked a few lowly corporals outs of their chairs and dragged the seats over to window table. The new officers didn't spare him a glance as they took their seats, allowing the rest of the café to return to their amusements.

"I require wine," Major barked.

"René," Gruber said, "wine for our guests."

René jumped in his hurry to fulfill the request as he selected a bottle. He shoved the bottle into the arms of his petite waitress. "Mimi, wine for our visitors."

Mimi's eyes gleamed with glee as she took the bottle and gripped it tightly by the neck. "I will break the bottle over the Major's head and then plunge the broken glass straight into his heart!"

The bottom of the bottle bounced off his chest as the waitress demonstrated her intentions. Slightly panicked, René hissed, "How many times do I have to tell you? There will be no killing in my café. I can't afford to drive away any customers. If you want to kill Germans, you must do so on your own time."

Mimi jutted out her lip in disappointment before turning on her heel and walking towards the table. Luckily, she still retained some sense; she simply poured the wine and backed away. René sighed in relief. Lovely girl that she was, Mimi was one day going to be the death of him.

However, before he could convince his heart to stop racing, the café door opened again and René realized that this was going to be the night that strangers stopped by his café. This man was short and dressed simply in peasant clothing. René didn't give the stranger much thought as he watched the man walk up to the bar and order wine. But René almost dropped the bottle when the man leaned in close and said, "I would like to taste some of your local Munster cheese."

Breathing slowly, René finished pouring and replied, "I'm all out of Munster, but I can offer you some of our specially made Roquefort."

"Nighthawk?" the stranger whispered.

"Yes. Papa Bear?"

"He sent me. You see the Lieutenant?" The stranger tilted his head toward the window.

"Yes." René was not sure that he liked the direction this conversation was going.

"He will ask you about renting some rooms for the next couple of nights for himself, the Major, and those two sergeants at the far table. Agree. Once you close, we'll sneak in the sixth member of our group, whom you will have to hide."

Hide! He didn't like the sound of that. Michelle had promised him that he wouldn't have to hide anyone. "And you?"

"Aren't you pleased to see your nephew, Louis? Who is a young chef and wants to learn all about running a café from his favorite uncle?"

René wasn't sure he liked the idea of letting a stranger run around his kitchen. But he doubted that this man's cooking could be worse than his wife's. "Very well. Do you know your way around a kitchen?"

The young man snorted. "Monsieur, I assure you that I am a fully trained classical chef and, before the war, I worked at some of the finest restaurants in Paris."

René raised an eyebrow. _Really?_ Well, if this Louis fellow was going to claim the knowledge then he would put him to the test. "The patrons have already had dinner, but I have some apples that are about to go bad and soldiers with money to spend on dessert. Show me what you can do."

"Great," Louis mumbled as he headed towards the kitchen. "I come all the way to France just to make strudel."

* * *

Hogan quickly decided that he was going to enjoy his stay in Nouvion. While it was clear from their conversations that Colonel von Strohm was about as good a kommandant as Colonel Klink, his personality was closer to Schultz's, which made for a pleasant discussion. Gruber was practically a walking tourism board as he could not hide his love for the village. And then there was the German beauty seated across him. Turning on the charm, Hogan asked, "Private Geerhart, what brings you to Nouvion?"

"Call me Helga," she said with a smile. " I was assigned here. I joined the army because I wished to serve my country and I have to admit that I found the idea of seeing the world quite exciting."

"That and Herr Flick would throw a fit if she were transferred out," von Strohm added with a chuckle that left no doubt as to the nature of that relationship.

Helga's face grew dangerously dark when Hogan asked, "Herr Flick?"

"The head of our local Gestapo," Gruber explained.

The American officer took a sip of his wine to hide his disappointment. That woman dating a member of the Gestapo. What a waste. At least the knowledge would help him keep his mind on business. That was, as long as he didn't look at the two French waitresses moving around, flashing bosom and leg in an attempt to get soldiers to pay to see more.

"What is this?" Carter asked, his eyes fixated on the sight over by the stairs.

The Germans looked up and then immediately turned back to the table as an older woman entered the room dressed in a corset and stockings. They nearly hurt each other in their rush to grab cheese out of dish from the center of the table.

Gruber held out some cheese for them as well. "Take it. You'll need it."

Hogan exchanged a confused look with Carter. What in the world was going on? And why was everyone in the café stuffing cheese in their ears?

The portly bartender called out from the center of the room, "Ladies and gentlemen, special guests, it is cabaret time at Café René. May I present my wife, Madame Edith."

Edith strode into the center of the room with confidence. She may have been a beauty in her younger days, but any trace of those days was long gone. It didn't help that her costume and makeup were that of a younger woman, which made her appear even older than Hogan thought she was.

The singer touched her head and suggestively ran her hand down the side of her body as she sang:

 _"A smart and stylish girl you see,_

 _Belle of good society."_

Stepping forward she lifted her skirt to show the top of her stockings.

 _"Not too strict but rather free._

 _Yet as right as right can be!"_

There was bad singing and there was whatever this woman did. For Hogan did not have to understand a single word to fully appreciate just how far out of tune she was and why the cheese was necessary.

Oblivious to the pain she was causing, Edith began to sway her hips as she neared his table.

 _"Never forward, never bold._

 _Not too hot, and not too cold._

 _But the very thing, I'm told,_

 _That in your arms you'd like to hold."_

Hogan's jaw dropped as she wrapped her arms around von Strohm.

No longer caring how ridiculous he looked, Hogan stuffed the cheese as deep into his ears as it would go. He was willing to try anything to block out that horrendous voice. So when Edith walked back to the center of the room with her hands on her hips, the American prepared himself for the coming horror of the chorus.

 _"Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!_

 _Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!_

 _Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!"_

The cheese was muffling the sound somewhat, but nowhere near enough. Especially, since each ear piercing 'ay' brought with it a kick that caused Hogan to see much more of this woman's knickers than he ever desired to.

 _"I'm not extravagantly shy."_

Oh, no, she was walking toward him!

 _"And when a nice young man is nigh."_

Hogan repressed a shudder as she draped an arm across his shoulders.

 _"For his heart I have a try_

 _And faint away with tearful cry!"_

Right on cue, Edith fainted, forcing Hogan to catch her in his lap. She stayed just long enough for things to get very awkward before she pranced off.

 _"When the good young man in haste_

 _Will support me round the waist."_

Carter turned red as Edith settled herself in his lap.

 _"I don't come to while thus embraced_

 _Till of my lips he steals a taste!"_

For a few dreadful seconds, Hogan feared that she was going for his man's lips, but she settled for a pat on the head before practically skipping off to the middle of the room.

 _"Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!"_

The only - and this was the only - saving grace on the final chorus was that the other waitresses stepped forward and joined in. Edith was too loud for their voices to make a difference but their legs did give him something pleasing to look at until the torture ended. He was never going to complain about Klink's violin playing again.

 _"Ta-ra-ra Boom-DEEE-AAAY!"_

That screech was so high pitched that not only did it induce headaches, it broke several glasses by the bar.

Silence, blessed silence filled the café, and then applause. Hogan joined in not out of desire to reward the show but more out of relief that it was over.

After shooing his wife out of the room, René moved forward to refresh their wine. Carter fell back into his character as he sipped from his glass. "Your wife is an enthusiastic singer."

Somehow Gruber kept a straight face as he said, "He says your wife is an enthusiastic singer."

"Enthusiastic, yes. A singer? That is doubtful," René replied.

That comment made Hogan chuckle when he heard the translation. The Frenchman turned to leave, so the American called out, "Wait, the Major requires two of your rooms for us and our guards for the foreseeable future."

Von Strohm held out a hand before Gruber could repeat his words. "That is not necessary. There are plenty of rooms at the chateau. It would be an honor to host you there."

"We are grateful for the offer," Hogan replied. "But this café offers certain entertainments that we wish to partake in. " Hogan allowed his eyes to find the gorgeous tall waitress who was flirting with some customers at the adjacent table. She immediately noticed his attention and winked.

The Colonel smiled knowingly. "Ah, I understand. René, these officers would like to rent out your rooms."

René bowed. "Anything for the victorious conquerors."

* * *

Author's Note: The original composer of "Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay" is unknown. Henry Sayers was given copyright of the song in the 1890s, but he later admitted that he'd heard the song first sung by a African-American singer by the name of Mama Lou. The song became famous when British singer, Lottie Collins, bought the rights off of Sayers and performed it her act. Today, the song is in public domain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: The Germans**

"Report!" Colonel Wilhelm Klink tried to give the order in a strong confident voice, but it came out more as a squeak. He couldn't help it. It was hard to keep up the appearance of a strict but fair kommandant when his camp was falling apart before his eyes. Because it didn't matter how many men had been entrusted to his care, his eyes couldn't help but stare at the five empty spots where prisoners should be standing.

Stalag Thirteen was escape proof! He'd never had a single escape. And now five men - _five_ \- were missing! And that was before he counted his missing guard.

Klink shook his head slightly. Thinking of Schultz's betrayal gave him a headache. He didn't know if treason or incompetence was the reason behind his guard's absence because with Schultz either was entirely possible.

"Herr...Kommandant... I beg to...report..." Langenscheidt stuttered as he stood shaking before his CO. Suddenly, Klink was seized by the fear that the news was worse than he expected. Five men had escaped. Could more be missing?

"Out with it!" Klink snapped.

"Five men are missing," Langenscheidt quickly said with a frightened gulp.

Five. Klink should have felt some relief, but hearing those words spoken aloud only intensified the knots in his stomach. Five escapees. He would be the laughing stock of the entire Luftwaffe. At least, until he suffered a gruesome death on the Russian Front.

Determined to go out with his dignity intact, Klink marched forward and addressed the prisoners. "I assure you that no has ever escaped Stalag Thirteen and no one ever will. Colonel Hogan and his men will be found and returned. All prisoners are restricted to barracks and all privileges are revoked until they are recaptured. Dismissed!"

Leaving his guards to return the prisoners to the barracks, the officer turned and stormed into his office. He needed to think, to form some sort of plan. He had men out searching, but with access to a truck, Colonel Hogan could be at the Swiss border by now.

Sinking into a chair, Klink couldn't help but wonder how this day had gone so wrong.

He had been in his office doing paperwork. Or at least trying to. The prisoners were playing some game that mostly consisted of blowing whistles and banging balls against the walls of his office. Orders to Colonel Hogan to put a stop to the madness had led to a conversation that gave the German a headache as the American came up with every excuse in the book to allow his men to continue their game. At the time, he had believed that the phone call asking for a work party to fix the Kaiser Road was a blessing. It was his chance to get Hogan and his men out of camp for a couple of hours so he could finally have some peace and quiet.

But Hogan never made it to the road. And now he had disappeared with four of his own men, the sergeant of the guard and a camp truck. Klink couldn't help but wonder if Hogan had arranged the whole thing.

No, that was impossible. Hogan just took advantage of an opportunity. It was Klink's fault for letting down his guard. For trusting that Schultz was man enough to handle five prisoners on his own. And now he had to deal with the consequences of his mistake before it killed him.

He should call the Gestapo. He should inform General Burkhalter. But if he called them, he would have to explain why he had waited so long to report an escape that had happened hours ago. They would be angry and they would want to know where to start the search and Klink would have to admit that he didn't know.

But if he didn't call, the truth would come out eventually. What was he to do?

The phone rang and Klink jumped. Maybe this would be one of his men informing him that he'd found Hogan. Yes, it would be a guard and not Burkhalter or Hochstetter. His superiors would never need to know.

"Hello."

 _"Sergeant Schultz speaking."_

Relief and rage filled Klink in equal parts. "Schultz, you dummkopf, where are you?"

 _"Watching the prisoners, Herr Kommandant."_

"Watching the prisoners! You should have returned them to camp hours ago!"

 _"But, Herr Kommandant, you ordered me to get them out of your hair."_

Klink was flabbergasted. What nonsense was his guard referring to? "I did no such thing! Now I order you to return the prisoners at once."

 _"At once?"_

"Of course at once. I except you back at camp within the hour."

 _"That is not possible,"_ Schultz replied with a whimper.

"Not possible..." Klink trailed off as he listened to the noises coming through the phone. There was music and voices. Voices speaking in German and...was that French? "Schultz, I order you to report your location."

 _"I'm with the prisoners."_

Klink sighed; his headache was getting worse - much worse. And he was definitely hearing a woman speaking French. "Are you in France? What are you doing in France?"

Schultz gulped. _"Colonel Hogan..."_

"Colonel Hogan is a prisoner of war. You are a sergeant of the guard. You were a sergeant of the guard but when you return you are going to be a private on the Russian Front!"

Schultzgroaned and Klink could hear him as he turned to address a person near him. _"Colonel Hogan,_ please _, we must return to camp tonight."_

Hogan was listening! Klink could feel his blood pressure raising. "Schultz! Put Hogan on the phone."

 _"Evening, Kommandant, are you enjoying our time apart?"_

"No, I'm not enjoying our time apart," Klink growled; he had fallen right into Hogan's trap. He was in control of this conversation, not Hogan! "Hogan, I'm ordering you to gather all your men and return to camp tonight."

 _"Kommandant, you sound stressed. I wouldn't think of returning until you have had plenty of time to relax."_

"How can I relax when five of my prisoners are missing?"

 _"We aren't missing; we're with Schultz. And you have my word as an officer that there will be no escapes. Goodnight, Kommandant."_ With those words, the line went dead with a click.

Slamming the phone back on its cradle, Klink let loose his frustrations, "HOOGAAAN!"

This situation was intolerable. His worthless sergeant of the guard let an infuriating American officer trick him into taking his prisoners on a joyride to France! If word got out, his career would be over. Curse Hogan! His only prayer was to keep quiet and hope that American POW would keep his word.

He had no other choice.

* * *

Private Helga Geerhart ran her hands down the sides of her uniform checking that everything was in order. Herr Flick was a stickler for perfection and she did not want to disappoint. Once she was confident that not even a stocking was crooked, she raised her hand and knocked.

"Enter," cried the voice from within.

Opening the door, Helga descended into the dungeonesque room. The whole space felt dark and intimidating, which caused her heart to beat faster; she couldn't help it, the more dangerous the room and the man inside of it appeared, the more exhilarated she became.

The Gestapo officer studied her with those piercing eyes of his as she came to a halt in front of his desk. "You're late."

"I'm sorry, Herr Flick. There were visitors at the café and it took me longer to get away."

For a moment he considered rebuking her further, but his curiosity got the better of him. "What visitors?"

"There were five," Helga said. "Two officers from Berlin: Major Carterhoff and his aide, Lieutenant Hoganbecker. They arrived with two guards, both sergeants, and are staying at the café. The fifth was a French peasant. He claims to be René's nephew and, due to his age, I suspect he may have deserted his post with the Compulsory Work Service."

"I received no word of any visiting officers." Flick rose and began to limp around the desk as he thought aloud. "This nephew must be a member of the Résistance and the visiting officers, traitors. The billiard tournament is a cover for their conspiracy. Does Colonel von Strohm plan to attend?"

"Yes, Herr Flick. He intends to watch Lieutenant Gruber compete."

Flick nodded. That information confirmed what he was thinking. "These men are meeting to plan an assassination of the Fuehrer. It is imperative that I attend to uncover the extent of their plot."

Helga raised an eyebrow. "But how, Herr Flick?"

"I can't go as my usual threatening Gestapo self. That would scare the conspirators away. No, I will go disguised as a competitive billiard player."

"I didn't know you played."

"Billiards is a seedy game, often played by low life characters in smoke filled pubs. I came in third place at our annual Gestapo pub night."

Helga stepped forward so that her lips were a mere breath away from his and smiled. "I was a fool to ever doubt you."

"Indeed. You may kiss me now."

"Yes, Herr Flick."

Helga's whole body was filled with passion as she wrapped her arms around the ever stiff, unmoving and cold body of this dominating man and kissed him with everything she had. Flick never returned her ardor but she believed that it would only be a matter of time before her fire would melt his ice.

* * *

It was not the after dinner companion that Lieutenant Hubert Gruber had hoped for as he walked through the streets of Nouvion with Colonel von Strohm at his side. While von Strohm was a friendly enough fellow, he was not the man to whom his heart belonged. _Oh, Ren_ _é_ _!_ If not for this accursed war, he would have been free to explore Nouvion with his paints rather than his little tank. If not for the war, he would be free to woo his love instead of treating him as an enemy. But if not for the war, then he never would have met René ...

Von Strohm cleared his throat and Gruber forced his thoughts to return to reality as the officer gestured toward his office. "Join me for a nightcap, Hubert."

"Yes, sir."

While von Strohm busied himself with the liquor, Gruber's eyes were drawn to an official looking envelope on the desk. "You have mail."

The Colonel shrugged and pulled out a decanter of schnapps and a couple of glasses.

"It's from General von Klinkerhoffen."

Von Strohm sighed. "Even when the man is in Berlin, he finds work for me. This is supposed to be an easy post."

Gruber sympathized. Being assigned to Nouvion had been a blessing in more ways than one. He did not miss his tour of the Russian Front. The news the that von Klinkerhoffen had been ordered to travel to a meeting in Berlin meant that their minimal responsibilities were now even less, causing great joy around the office that had only been surpassed by the word that Captain Bertorelli had been ordered to accompany him. The office had never been quieter or less productive. However, his sense of duty compelled him to continue speaking, "It looks important."

"Then open it."

Gruber obeyed and his face quickly paled as he read the words. "It's about the painting!"

"The painting? Not _our_ painting."

"Yes, our painting."

"I thought we told him it was blown up."

"It appears the Fuehrer does not believe it has been destroyed and has offered a reward for delivery of the _Portrait of the Fallen Madonna with the ..._." Gruber held the letter and the envelope in front of his chest. Then turning back to the letter, he whistled as he read the amount.

Grabbing the paper from his hands, von Strohm's panic turned into greed as he, too, read the numbers. Shoving the paper back to his subordinate, he said, "You are the art expert. Is it worth it or should we wait until we find a buyer?"

Gruber squirmed. "That depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On who you believe will win the war."

"Nonsense, we will. Germany will never be defeated."

"Then, while the reward is less than the painting is worth on the open market, I doubt we will get more for it once it becomes known that the Fuehrer desires this work for his private collection."

The Colonel nodded as if that made perfect sense. "We will retrieve the painting from René tomorrow and then we will find a way to claim this reward without the General knowing. He can fund his own retirement without stealing ours."

With a clink of their glasses, the two German officers drank to their plan and Gruber found solace in the fact that while René was not beside him tonight, he now had an excuse to see him again tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: The Meeting**

LeBeau had already decided that this was his favorite mission. He was in France, he had access to a proper kitchen, and the waitresses! Not only were they beautiful, one was even shorter than he! So after the café shut down for the night, he wasted no time in making her acquaintance. "Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Louis LeBeau and you must be an angel sent to ease this soldier's burden in these dark times."

The waitress's voice sounded like the choirs of heaven as she replied, "My name is Mimi Labonq. I am a fully trained assassin. Tell me which German you need killed and I will do it."

She kills Germans! This woman was surpassing his wildest dreams. "Mimi, you are a woman after my own heart."

She looked at him rather curiously. "You're rather cute for soldier."

Cute! LeBeau almost proposed right there. She thought he was cute! However, a sharp elbow in the ribs brought him back to earth. He whipped his head around and glared at the guilty party.

"Can it, will you," Newkirk said. "Some of us are going to barf."

LeBeau huffed. "You're just jealous because she thinks I'm cute."

"Cute means she's not interested."

"Oh, and I did miss you throwing yourself at the tall waitress earlier."

"I would have been successful if me mate would have helped me out with some French."

"I gave you a couple of sentences to use."

"All insults that got me slapped! Next time, I'll ask Kinch."

LeBeau rolled his eyes. "What does he know about love? He's an American!"

Realizing Mimi had walked toward the bar, he hurried after her, only to be stopped when the door to the back room opened and Colonel Hogan poked his head out. "LeBeau, ask your countrymen to join us; we need to talk.

LeBeau nodded while Newkirk pointed toward the corner. "What about Schultz?" The guard's snores suggested he wasn't moving anytime soon.

"Even if we could wake him up, he wouldn't want to know."

After finding René, LeBeau led him, his wife and the two waitresses into the back room. The café owner looked over at the five newcomers and gasped when he spotted the final member of the group. "Oh my God!" René grabbed his head and looked to the heavens. "He's colored. How am I going to hide a colored man in my café? I'm going to be shot!"

Kinch looked unfazed as he said, "I assure you, sir, that I am very good at fooling the Germans."

LeBeau had never seen anyone's eyes grow that wide. "You speak French!" René gasped.

Kinch smiled as if to say 'obviously'.

Unsure of what was going on but nevertheless determined to take control of the meeting, Hogan cleared his throat and then gave a pointed look toward LeBeau. Great, he was going to be stuck playing translator.

"I'm Hogan and these are my men: Kinchloe, Carter, Newkirk and you've met LeBeau. We are grateful to you for agreeing to host us in your café."

"I am René Artois and this is my wife, Edith, and my waitresses, Mimi and Yvette. We were told that you would be able to help with transporting some downed airmen back to England."

Hogan nodded. "We can. In return, we will need your discretion while we carry out a mission of our own."

"You will have it," Edith said firmly. "We are proud to host real soldiers in our café."

LeBeau didn't think René shared his wife's enthusiasm, but he translated her words anyway.

Carter held up a hand. "Where are these airmen?"

René walked over to a clock and knocked. The clock face swung open and a man poked his head out. "'Allo!"

The board at the bottom shifted to the left as a second head appeared. "'Allo!"

René gestured widely. "Come out, we have guests. What am I saying? They don't speak French."

LeBeau chuckled and switched languages as he said, "Come on out."

"Oh, jolly good, someone who speaks English!" the man on the bottom cried out and crawled into the room.

When the second airman joined them, his eyes grew wide as he looked around the room. "I say, is there a party happening here?"

Hogan stepped forward. "Colonel Robert E. Hogan, USAAF. We're going to get you back to England."

The men saluted and the one on the right said, "Lieutenants Fairfax and Carstairs, sir."

Carstairs leaned in close and whispered, "I don't want to complain, sir, but the locals' attempts to get us to England have been a major cock up."

Hogan smiled. "You're in good hands now."

LeBeau knew better than to translate that exchange so he didn't resume until Hogan turned back to the civilians. "Do you have any civilian clothing for them?"

"We were going to dress them up as billiard players so they could leave after the tournament, " René replied. "That is, if that old coot ever gets around to finishing their papers."

"That won't be a problem, we brought a forger with us." Newkirk waved as Hogan continued speaking, "And we'll make a set for Kinch as well." The American officer grinned as he gestured toward his friend. "Ladies and Gentlemen, met Makabana, the billiard champion of Africa. He's traveled all this way just to compete in your tournament."

René still looked uncertain as LeBeau repeated his CO's words, but his wife spoke first. "Agreed, that is a good idea."

"Edith," René hissed.

"Just because you are a coward, doesn't mean the rest of us are. Besides, people will pay good money to see an African champion compete."

Yvette added her approval, "The Germans will believe anything."

"Especially our Germans," Mimi said.

Hogan looked satisfied as the plan came together. "They sound a lot like the Germans we deal with as well."

After a few further details were ironed out, LeBeau was freed from his translator duty and immediately moved so he was standing besides the most perfect women he had ever met. "Mimi, you and I would make a beautiful team. Killing Germans by day and making love by night." Grabbing her hand, he kissed it "What do you say?"

Mimi cocked her head as she considered the offer. "Do you have money?"

Money! What? Suddenly, LeBeau's face went beat red as he realized what she was implying.

Newkirk's laughter was really going to get on his nerves as his friend didn't have to understand French to know that he had just been shot down. "Maybe you should start asking Kinch for advice, too."

"Very funny," LeBeau said through gritted teeth. "She asked for money."

The laughter grew louder until it suddenly stopped when the Englishman came to an important realization. Reaching for his wallet, he said, "I wouldn't want to deprive a poor French girl just trying to make ends meet in a war torn country of a desperately needed source of income. It wouldn't be right." Catching Yvette's eyes, Newkirk smiled, the invitation clear.

LeBeau was weighing the pros and cons of joining his friend when a firm hand gripped his shoulder.

Kinch, whose other hand rested on Newkirk, looked over at the waitresses and said, "Any money they give you is counterfeit."

"Humph." Yvette turned on her heel and walked away in huff, with Mimi not far behind.

"What'd you have to do that for?" Newkirk protested.

"Orders," Kinch answered. "Colonel Hogan wants to make sure everyone gets plenty of rest. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day."

Newkirk sighed and glanced over at LeBeau. "You're right; Americans don't know anything about love."

* * *

The next morning, Carstairs rejoiced in the efficiency of the café's guests as plans moved forward at an impressive pace. LeBeau had made them the best meal they'd eaten since getting shot down, the Americans masquerading as German officers left to embark on some mission of their own, and the Cockney fellow went to work on disguises and papers. Meanwhile, the colored soldier announced that if they were going to pretend to be professional billiard players, they were going to need to get in a lot of practice today.

Carstairs and Fairfax followed Kinchloe into the backroom. Looking at the table closely for the first time since the plan was announced, Carstairs frowned. It looked odd. How they were going to play a proper game on it, he wasn't sure. "I say, Fairfax, this isn't snooker."

"We do seem to be rather short on balls," his friend agreed.

"Maybe we are going to play carom billiards? But this table has pockets."

Kinch, handing out cue sticks, said, "We're playing pool."

"Pool?" Fairfax gasped. "But I don't know how to swim!"

Newkirk, who had just walked into the room with a pile of clothing in his arms, rolled his eyes. "Pool billiards."

"Why didn't you say so instead of confusing us by saying 'billiards'."

"But pool and billiards are the same thing," Kinch protested.

Newkirk laughed. "Billiards refers to either English billiards or snooker back home. You Yanks are the ones who can't get the language right."

"Oh," Fairfax said as he finally understood. "What do the French call it?"

"Same as the Americans, I think," Newkirk replied. Then glancing toward the kitchen, he raised his voice, "The French are an uncivilized lot!"

Kinch began to set the balls in the rack. "LeBeau can't hear you; he left for the market. Something about war rations and the deplorable state of the pantry." Lifting the rack so the balls lay in place, he asked, "Have you decided what version of pool we're playing?"

Having been 'volunteered' to run the tournament, Newkirk answered, "Professional games are normally straight pool, but if you lot have to call your shots, we'll never have a winner. So eight-ball it is." Then picking up two outfits, he handed them to his countrymen. "Try these on."

Carstairs had to admit that he was impressed as he changed into dress pants, dress shirt, vest and tie. Newkirk fussed over the fit, putting pins here and there to mark adjustments. Then he pulled out a faux gold chain and attached it to the vest.

Fairfax ran his hand down the sides of his outfit. "These are rather spiffing outfits, I'd say. Where'd you get them?"

"The local undertaker sent them over," Newkirk replied.

Carstairs gulped. "I'm not wearing the clothes of dead man, am I?'

Kinch grinned as he inspected his own outfit. "If you don't want to know, I suggest you don't ask."

Gesturing for them to change back, Newkirk said, "I'll enlist the girls to make the adjustments and then start work on your papers. You two are going to be Dutch."

"But we don't know a word of the language!" Fairfax protested.

Confused, Carstairs asked, "We're what? Where's that country?"

Newkirk sighed. "The Netherlands and they speak Dutch, but a lot their citizens also speak English. No one in Nouvion is going to know Dutch so you'll be fine using English."

"Oh, jolly good then."

Kinch winced. "You're going to have to lose those accents though."

The British airmen traded glances as Carstairs said, "I never realized I had an accent before."

"I don't sound funny, do I?" Fairfax asked.

Kinch was rubbing his forehead when he suddenly announced, "A vow of silence. That's it."

Carstairs leaned over to his friend and whispered, "I fear, Fairfax, that our new friend has lost the plot."

"No, think about this. You are two of the best billiard players in all of the Netherlands. Fierce competitors and rivals. So determined to win that you both vowed not to speak until you have bested the other and taken the championship."

Carstairs wasn't sure that the plan was necessary but it looked like he wasn't going to have a choice, so he agreed. "If you think it's best."

"We do," Newkirk and Kinch said in unison.

Fairfax nodded his agreement and then walked over to the pool table. "Righto, so how do we play?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: The Mission**

Hogan maintained a look of bored indifference as he walked two steps behind Carter while they entered army headquarters. Even though the building was extravagant, it would be out of character to gawk. Once they reached the end of the hall, a soldier opened a door and they saw Private Geerhart seated behind a desk. She rose as they approached.

Moving so that he stood directly in front of her, Hogan announced, "Major Carterhoff to see Colonel von Strohm."

She nodded, clicked her heels together and then quickly went into her CO's office. After a couple minutes wait, she held open the door and bellowed at the top of her lungs, "Major Carterhoff and Lieutenant Hoganbecker!"

Hogan winced; Helga certainly had an impressive set of pipes.

Von Strohm smiled as they entered. "Welcome, I hope you enjoyed your night." The Kommandant wasn't even attempting to be subtle.

"Colonel," Carter barked, "we didn't come here to gossip like a group of giggling school girls. We are here on official military business!"

"Apologies, Herr Major."

Standing to the left of the massive desk, Lieutenant Gruber smiled. "How can we be of assistance?"

Carter pulled off his gloves and held out a hand. "Orders."

"Yes, sir," Hogan said as he pulled out the papers and laid them in the open hand.

Handing over the orders, Carter said, "Berlin has ordered us to investigate the defense in this area. It is imperative that all forces on the coast be prepared to fight off an invasion force at a moment's notice."

Gruber frowned as he read. "This doesn't make any sense. General von Klinkerhoffen is in command of this area and he just left for Berlin in order to provide a report of our defense status."

Hogan had to give his man credit, Carter didn't flinch, even in light of this unexpected information. "I know that!" he barked. "Why do you think we are here?"

"What the Major is saying is that Berlin is suspicious of the General's loyalties," Hogan explained, improvising on the fly. "While he is making his report in Berlin, we will make a report of our own. If the reports match up, he is loyal. If they do not..."

"He will be shot!" Carter said with a shout.

Von Strohm grimaced. "I see."

However, Gruber still didn't look convinced. "You have to admit that it is highly irregular."

Carter leaned forward, his voice raising to a shout. "Do you dare question the orders of General Kinchmeyer?"

Von Strohm flinched as he said, "I'm afraid that name is not familiar to me."

Carter snorted. "Can you believe it? They've never heard of General Kinchmeyer!"

"To be fair, Herr Major," Hogan said, "he is only the kommandant of a little village. If he was important, he'd be in command of a small town, at least."

"Oh, that General Kinchmeyer," von Strohm said as if he suddenly remembered the name.

Hogan nudged the phone on the desk. "Give the General a call. He's arrived at the café in town this morning. He thought it was important to stay below the radar as to not to give away the nature of our mission. If von Klinkerhoffen learns that he is under suspicion, it will make our job more difficult."

Von Strohm nodded and picked up the phone.

* * *

Kinch was definitely not going to complain about this assignment. It wasn't everyday that a beautiful woman was sitting in his lap, with her arms wrapped around his neck. However, he was going to have to concentrate on the mission and not focus on Yvette's ample bosom or the intoxicating scent of her perfume.

The phone rang and Yvette leaned over to pick up the phone. "Hello," she said. "He's right here." Then, after kissing him on his neck, she added with a purr, "Colonel von Strohm, General."

Giving Yvette a tickle so she'd giggle, Kinch took the phone and said, "General Kinchmeyer here."

 _"General, my apologies for the interruption. It's just that I have two men in my office with orders signed by you to inspect some highly restricted areas. As you are aware, this is highly irregular..."_

"I assure you that Major Carterhoff and Lieutenant Hoganbecker are two of my most trusted men and have the clearances necessary to undertake such an assignment."

 _"I understand, sir, it's just that..."_

"Do you have issues reading orders?"

 _"No, Herr General."_

"Do you have issues following instructions?"

 _"No, Herr General."_

"Then stop with your bellyaching and do your duty or you might just find yourself commanding a combat unit on the Russian Front!" Handing the phone back to Yvette, Kinch asked, "Now, where were we?"

Yvette leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips! Though when she attempted to hang up the phone at the same time, the chair wobbled. As soon the phone was placed safely in its cradle, she broke off the kiss and leaned back, which caused the chair to fall to the floor with its two occupants landing beside it.

"Oomph," Yvette said as she hit his body with a thud and then rolled off. "You're hard."

Kinch blushed while laughter carried over from the kitchen door. Wiping tears from his eyes, LeBeau joked, "There's no doubt about that!"

* * *

"Hmm," Carter said as he stood staring at the map in front of him, hands behind his back. "Hmm..." The map showed the positions of nearby bases and defense fortifications and it was exactly the type of information that London had ordered them to collect on this trip.

It appeared that their official 'search' of General von Klinkerhoffen's office was going to offer better intelligence than Hogan had originally hoped for.

"Is there a problem, Herr Major?" Gruber asked. The Lieutenant had been ordered to escort them during their 'tour'.

"No, no, this map is very enlightening. Do you have a list of the current personal assigned to this area?"

Gruber nodded and gestured with his hand. "This way, sir."

While Carter moved over to a nearby desk and began to inspect various papers, Hogan remained where he was. He had a small camera in his pocket and he hoped to get a chance to use it. Checking that Gruber was engaged, he pulled it out and was about to snap a picture when the German called out, "Oh, Lieutenant Hoganbecker, you must see these reports. When Berlin sees these, there will be no doubt that General von Klinkerhoffen is telling the truth."

Hogan smiled as he walked over and looked at the papers that the German shoved under his nose. "Very good, Lieutenant." Then catching Carter's eye, he nodded. Gruber was simply too perceptive for his own good; it was time to change tactics.

"Lies! All lies!" Carter shouted suddenly as he threw some papers on the floor.

Gruber bent down to pick up the mess. "Major Carterhoff, I assure you that these numbers are the most up-to-date information."

While the two of them went at it, Hogan again went for the camera in his pocket and started back toward the large map.

"Papers! All you show me is papers!" Carter was now sweeping his arm across the desk, scattering everything to the floor. "Same lies your General is showing Berlin! I need proof!"

Desperate, Gruber reached over and grabbed Hogan's arm. The American barely managed hide the camera in time as the German pleaded, "Lieutenant, please, you must convince the Major to stop destroying the office."

Hogan shrugged. "There is no reasoning with him when he is like this." _Now go and deal with the crazy Major and leave me alone._

"Wait, I know." Gruber began to drag the reluctant American officer over towards his man. "Why don't you visit the coast. I can take you in my little tank."

Carter froze in mid-destruction. He knew Hogan hadn't been able to take the pictures they needed. But he also knew that the opportunity to visit the coastal defense was one they couldn't afford to pass up. But this wasn't his decision to make.

Thankfully, Hogan noticed his man's indecision and said, "That is a wonderful idea, Lieutenant."

Carter cocked his head and immediately switched back into his more pleasant officer persona. "That will be most acceptable."

Gruber was all too happy to lead them out of the room. And from the glowing way he spoke of his tank, one might be forgiven for thinking it was the man's child. Gruber was different from any other German officer Hogan had worked with before. Especially since never before had he failed to complete a task because the German he tried to con was simply too nice.

This was turning out to be a very weird war.

* * *

Carter fought the urge to pinch himself as he watched the countryside roll by from the inside of Gruber's surprisingly comfortable little tank. He was in France! He was fulfilling his dream, even though they weren't anywhere near the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps on the trip home ...

Beside him, Lieutenant Gruber kept up a steady commentary about the land they passed and the fortifications they spotted. In all, Carter thought Gruber was a pretty nice guy. Someone that he wished he could just talk to, instead of being mean to. It was a shame that Major Carterhoff had to be such an unlikeable fellow.

The tank slowed down and Gruber popped his head out and spoke to the guards as their papers were inspected again. It was a good thing that their escort was known around these parts. They never would have been able to bluff their way through on their own.

When the tank came to a halt, Gruber let them out and gestured up the coast. "As you see, our defense is strong. The General is confident that we will be able to repel an invasion force."

Hogan surveyed the barbed wire, gun turrets and bunkers that dominated the landscape. "I must say, I'm impressed."

"Humph," Carter said. "It appears adequate. Wait here, Gruber."

Walking briskly toward the channel, he trusted that Colonel Hogan was two steps behind him. It was hard to believe that they were now closer to England than to Germany. Especially since they had been brought into France from Germany to send intelligence and two downed airmen to England!

Hogan whispered softly once they reached the barbed wire. "Okay, let's make this quick. Our guide is a little too perceptive for his own good."

"He's just trying to be friendly, sir."

"Carter, we're not here to make friends."

"I know, sir, it's just that Gruber seems like a really swell guy."

"Well, that swell guy could send us all to a firing squad if we're not careful."

Carter's face fell. "Right. Do you want me to take the pictures?"

"No," Hogan said, as he took out the camera and aimed, using Carter's body to block any nearby Germans' view of what he was doing. "Just stand still."

* * *

As the Kommandant of Nouvion, Colonel von Strohm embraced as much of a hands-off style of leadership as possible. The military commanders in the area handled defense, the Gestapo dealt with the Résistance and the villagers managed themselves. Other than occasionally having to shoot a few peasants to remind them of their place, he was free to focus on more important matters. Such as deciding how he would spend his half of the reward money once Gruber returned with the painting.

He looked up from his desk when he heard the door open and saw Helga approach. His perfectly put together secretary stopped in front of his desk and said, "Excuse me, Colonel. You have another message from General von Klinkerhoffen."

Von Strohm groaned. "Not about the painting."

Helga nodded. "I'm afraid so, sir. He wants to know if you have made any progress in the discovery of the whereabouts of _The Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies_ by van Klomp. The General is quite keen to claim the Fuehrer's reward."

"Tell him we are searching diligently, but that it is, unfortunately, still missing."

"Yes, sir." Helga started to turn away, but then suddenly turned back towards him. "Colonel, you haven't considered claiming that reward for yourself, have you?"

 _Oh-no!_ He was in trouble now. Gulping, he forced his voice to remain steady. "Certainly not!"

Helga smiled in such a way that told him that she knew that he was lying. "Well, Colonel, I hope you haven't forgotten that one third of the profits from the sale of the painting belongs to me."

Von Strohm wanted to scream. It was bad enough that he was sharing the reward with Gruber. But to split the profits with a private _and_ a woman! But now that Helga was onto him, he was going to have to be careful. She knew too much. Besides, if she informed Herr Flick that his copy of the painting, which he believed was real, was really a forgery then von Strohm would really be in trouble.

"I won't think of forgetting you," he lied. "Gruber will pick up the painting from René today and then we will decide what to do."

Helga frowned. "Colonel, you are aware that Gruber is currently driving around the visiting officers in his little tank. Do you think it wise for them to learn of the existence of the painting?"

"Our painting is currently hidden in a sausage in the cellar. There's nothing suspicious about Gruber picking up a sausage."

"If you say so, Colonel."

When Helga turned to leave, he called out, "Wait." A rather disturbing thought had just occurred to him. Could it be that their visitors were really using their orders as an excuse to search for _The_ _Fallen_ _Madonna_? He needed more information. "What has Herr Flick discovered about our guests?"

"Herr Flick believes that they are part of a plot to assassinate the Fuehrer."

The Kommandant rolled his eyes. "Herr Flick believes that everyone is trying to assassinate the Fuehrer." But that didn't mean they were entirely harmless either. Helga was right; they couldn't afford the risk. Rising from his chair, he ordered, "Call my driver. We're going to the café."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: The Painting**

LeBeau picked up his knives and began to sharpen them while he formed his plan of attack for tonight. Word had spread fast of his presence at Café René and it felt like half the village of Nouvion had turned up for lunch. In fact, things had gone so well that René had offered him a job after the war. If dinner was an even greater success, he suspected the café owner just might try to convince Colonel Hogan to let him stay behind.

Drawn by the sound of knives, Schultz leaned over the chef's shoulder and asked, "What's for dinner?"

LeBeau rolled his eyes as he set his knives down on the counter. "How can you be hungry? You had three bowls of bouillabaisse and a whole loaf of fougasse for lunch." 

"That was hours ago."

"Why don't you go watch the others play pool?"

"I can't let a very dangerous prisoner cook food for all these very important German officers without supervision."

LeBeau should have known. As long as he was in the kitchen, there would be no shaking Schultz. At least it kept the guard out of the others' hair. "I'm making choucroute garnie and ratatouille with clafoutis for dessert. "

"Yum," Schultz said, drool forming at his mouth. "I can smell the sausage already."

"Good, you can grab that knockwurst for me." LeBeau pointed over towards the far wall.

Schultz didn't hesitate and a few seconds later the rather large sausage rested in his hands. Inspecting the casing, LeBeau suddenly dropped it with a curse. "There's a swastika on this sausage!"

Schultz dove to the ground to save the precious meat, but when he, too, noticed the offending mark, he hung it back in its place and backed away slowly. "Maybe because it is a German sausage?"

It was a disgrace! An absolute disgrace! "Dirty pigs!" the Frenchman spat. "Is nothing sacred?"

"I agree; food should be sacred."

Crossing his arms, LeBeau turned away from the offending item. "I will not cook with that. Go get another sausage from the cellar."

"Right away," Schultz said as he hurried off.

Bosche! Just when he thought he understood his enemy, he discovered new lows of their barbarity. His blood boiled just thinking about it. Grabbing some helpless potatoes, he channeled his anger into removing their skins.

He glanced back when the kitchen door opened, but instead of Schultz, a very weary looking Newkirk stumbled into the room, swiped an open bottle of wine and began to drink straight from it.

Turning back to his prep, LeBeau said, "If you come in here, you can peel potatoes."

"Have a little heart, will you?" Newkirk moaned as he sank into a chair. "Do you have any idea what it's like trying to teach those two bird-brains how to play billiards? How are we supposed to convince the Krauts that they are professionals? It will never work, I say. Never."

"They're your countrymen."

"The Germans can have them."

LeBeau couldn't help it, he laughed as a sudden thought came to his mind. "Maybe they served with Colonel Crittendon."

"Don't even joke about that," Newkirk said before taking another swig from the bottle. "But that's not all."

"No?"

"No. We've been in France for almost twenty-four hours now."

"And?"

"We are in a town filled with beautiful women, surrounded by gorgeous waitresses and not one single bird has thrown herself into me arms! It's inhuman, this is. A man can only take so much."

LeBeau smirked. "French women are very good judges of character."

"Oh, like you've had better luck."

"We haven't left yet." It probably wouldn't be a good idea to tell his friend about the girl at the bakery he'd met this morning.

Any retort Newkirk could come up with was cut off by Schultz's return. The guard was cradling the knockwurst sausage in his arms like he was holding a baby. Handing it over, he said, "No swastika; I checked."

"Thank you, Schultz." Then after checking the casing himself, LeBeau grabbed his knife and chopped off one of the ends. That was weird - the sausage was hollow! And there was some sort of canvas hidden inside.

Intrigued, LeBeau reached into the knockwurst and pulled out the item. Luckily, his knife work had missed the canvas. Schultz and Newkirk gathered close as he unrolled the canvas. It was a painting, and not just any painting...

Newkirk whistled. "Now that's what I call a work of art!"

If LeBeau hadn't been holding the canvas, he would have fainted when he realized what it was and what he had almost damaged! For this work of art was perfection, it was priceless, and it was in his hands!

"It's beautiful!" Schultz gasped as he studied the beautiful woman with her feminine attributes exposed for all to enjoy. "What is it?"

"The portrait of _The_ _Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies_ by van Klomp," LeBeau said. "It's very famous."

"I can see why. " Newkirk agreed. "With breasts like that..."

There was a loud clatter by the door when a metal tray crashed to the floor. "Oh, my God!" René shouted as he rushed forward and grabbed the artwork out of LeBeau's hands. "The painting! You found the painting!" Then he turned his attention to the sausage, inspecting it frantically. "Where did you get this sausage?"

"Schultz grabbed it from the cellar," LeBeau said.

"The real one! You found the real one!"

"Don't worry, monsieur." LeBeau reassured his countryman. "I must say that I admire you. Risking your life to hide priceless art from the German swine. You are a true hero of the Résistance."

René puffed up on hearing the praise. "Well, it is what any loyal Frenchman would do. But now I must find a place to hide it before we open tonight."

"If I might make a suggestion? I have artist friends in Paris. We could send the painting to them. They would ensure that it is safe from the Germans until after the war."

René shook his head. "And what happens after the war? They sell _my_ painting and get rich."

LeBeau was offended. "Sell it? My friends are artists. They would never do such a dishonorable thing! They would give it to a museum."

"A museum?"

"Yes, such an important work of art belongs to all of France."

René didn't look convinced, which raised the POW's suspicion. The older man couldn't have planned to sell the painting, could he have? It was barbaric. For he was certain that the only way for _The Fallen Madonna_ to have wound up in a sausage in the cellar was because it was originally stolen.

The kitchen door swung open and Edith ran into the room. "Colonel von Strohm has just arrived with his secretary."

René threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, heck!"

LeBeau quickly grabbed Newkirk and Schultz and pushed them out the back door. "Krauts coming!" While they were both in German uniform, he couldn't think of an explanation for their presence in the café's kitchen.

When LeBeau turned back around, he saw that René had rolled up the painting and was currently shoving it down his pants. Panicked, LeBeau rushed over and grabbed the canvas out of the older man's hands. "You can't stuff a priceless work of art down the front of your trousers!"

"Why not?" Edith said. "It's not like he allows anything else down there anymore."

René's eyes flashed in anger, but he quickly forced a smile as von Strohm walked into the kitchen with Helga at his heels. "Colonel, what a pleasant surprise."

"René, I must speak with you urgently."

"Of course, Herr Colonel." Then gesturing towards the main room, he added, "Let's find a table."

Von Strohm held out a hand. "Halt! What is this man holding in his hands?"

"Nothing, Herr Colonel," René said, his hands wringing his apron. "It is nothing. Just some scraps we were going to throw away."

"Unroll it."

When LeBeau hesitated, Helga said sharply, "The Colonel gave you an order, peasant."

Knowing that he had no other choice, LeBeau reluctantly unrolled the canvas and laid the painting down on the table.

"René!" von Strohm shouted." What is your chef doing with my painting?"

LeBeau couldn't believe his ears. "His painting!"

René was sweating bullets as words fell out of his mouth. "It was a simple misunderstanding, Herr Colonel. My nephew was unaware of the painting's existence. He was prepping for dinner and grabbed the wrong sausage. A simple mistake."

Helga, however, wasn't convinced. "Then why did you lie?"

Madame Edith stepped forward with a smile. "Please forgive my husband. He was afraid you would be angry."

René nodded. "My wife is correct. Let me return the painting to the cellar and we can forget the whole incident."

"No," the Colonel ordered. "You will give the painting to me. The Fuehrer has offered a generous reward to whoever brings him the portrait of _The_ _Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies._ "

"Collaborator!" LeBeau shouted as he jumped between René and the Germans. How could this man be a member of the Résistance and hide stolen artwork _for_ the Germans? This was nothing short of treason. "You can't give it to him. This painting belongs to France!"

Those words set off a commotion and everyone began speaking at once. Things didn't quiet down until Mimi poked her head into kitchen and yelled, "Herr Flick of the Gestapo is here!"

"Oh, heck!" René said again, though this time with more force.

Everyone stepped forward to protect the painting, but LeBeau was the fastest. He quickly rolled the canvas up and placed the hand holding the painting behind his back, leaning gently against the kitchen wall.

A man smartly dressed in dress pants, shirt, vest and tie limped into the kitchen. He glanced around the room with a gaze that said 'I could have you shot at any moment'.

René wiped his hands on his apron as he stepped forward. "Good afternoon, Herr Flick, how may I be of assistance to the Gestapo?"

Flick gripped his cane tightly as he replied, "I'm not Herr Flick. I'm a professional billiard player who wishes to enter your tournament."

René rolled his eyes. "Certainly, professional billiard player. May I escort you to my back room so you can see our table and meet some of your competitors?"

"Wait!" the man who was insisting he was not Herr Flick called out as he slapped his cane on the top of the kitchen table. Bending down, he did not fail to notice that the sausage resting upon it was hollow. When he straightened back up, all pretense that he was anyone other than Herr Flick disappeared. "What have you done to my Gestapo sausage?"

"Gestapo sausage?" LeBeau asked.

"The one with the little swastika on it!"

"Oh, that's over there." LeBeau turned and pointed it out before realizing that he had just shown everyone the painting hidden behind his back.

"What is this man doing with my painting?" Flick screamed. "And why is it not in my sausage?"

Helga stepped forward. "I think that the answer is obvious, Herr Flick. René marked a sausage as you ordered, but hid the painting in another knockwurst sausage in order to keep the painting for himself."

LeBeau furrowed his brow; something strange was going on. Earlier, Helga had defended von Strohm and now she was backing Herr Flick. Whose side was she on?

René trembled as he spoke, "Herr Flick, I assure you, this is just a simple misunderstanding. If you will allow me, I will hide the painting in the correct sausage and we can pretend that this never happened."

Flick shook his head. "No. It is clear that you cannot be trusted. Give me painting or you will be shot."

In the midst of her husband's panic, somehow, Edith managed to keep her head. "I'm sorry, Herr Flick, Colonel von Strohm claims that it is his painting and he got here first."

LeBeau slammed his fist on the table. "This painting belongs in a museum! None of you can have it!"

Flick hobbled over to von Strohm and got into his face. "I order you to turn the portrait of _The Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies_ over to me or I will charge you as a traitor to the Third Reich and have you shot."

"General von Klinkerhoffen ordered me to send the painting to Berlin so he could present it to the Fuehrer, and he outranks you."

"In case you have forgotten, my godfather is Heinrich Himmler!"

The situation looked like it was about to turn violent when Yvette walked into the kitchen and announced, "Lieutenant Gruber has just pulled up in his little tank and the visiting officers are with him."

René looked like a man whose world was falling apart around him. "Oh, my God!"

"Quick," von Strohm ordered. "They must not see the painting!"

LeBeau clenched the precious canvas more tightly in his hands. "I will never give it to you!"

"Hand me my painting or I will have you all shot!" Flick screamed.

"I would rather die!"

"I can arrange that."

"Gentlemen, please, " René pleaded, falling to his knees in front of LeBeau, his head a little too close to LeBeau's crotch for the POW's liking.

"Oh, my!" Gruber gasped from the doorway. His eyes were wide in shock but the look of pain on his face was unmistakable as he stared at René.

"What is going on here?" Carter barked as he pushed his way into the kitchen with Hogan at his heels.

René stumbled to his feet and began a long and convoluted explanation that required Gruber to think fast in order to translate . Once the café owner finished, Hogan said, "Let me see if I understand the problem. Mr. Artois has been hiding the portrait of _The Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies_ in a knockwurst sausage. Your nephew was ignorant of this and discovered the painting when he attempted to cook the sausage for dinner. Colonel von Strohm and Herr Flick both claim ownership of this artwork and they both wish to send it to the Fuehrer who has offered a reward to whoever brings it to him."

Hogan took a deep breath. "You wish to keep this painting in your café, I suspect, in order to sell it after the war is over. Your nephew believes the painting belongs in a museum."

LeBeau gulped. He was in trouble now. But if anyone could figure a way out of this mess, it would be Colonel Hogan.

"Correct," von Strohm agreed. "As you can, see we are at an impasse."

"I think we ..." Hogan suddenly stopped and cocked his head as if he had heard something.

LeBeau strained his ears and he, too, heard a voice and it was getting louder.

"Billiards! Billiards!" an old man dressed in an outfit identical to Herr Flick's called out as he stumbled into the kitchen. "Anyone willing to play a game with a tired, old billiard player?"

LeBeau couldn't believe his eyes. What in the world was going on now? René, however, from his panicked reaction, clearly knew who this man was and he was not happy to see him. Grabbing the old man by the arm, René called out loudly, "Come over here, tired, old billiard player. I will sign you up for our tournament tomorrow night if you wish."

The old man leaned close to René, lifted up his glasses and whispered, "It is I, Leclerc."

LeBeau had to strain to hear what the two men were saying. Thankfully, he was the only one close enough to overhear.

"You fool!" René hissed. "Can't you see that my kitchen is full of Germans?"

Leclerc didn't look concerned as he continued, "I have a message from Michelle. Two women will come to your café tomorrow in disguise to take the airmen to a safe house."

"What disguise?"

"You will receive another message."

René began pushing the messenger back out the door, his voice gaining in volume as he said, "Thank you, billiard player. Come back tomorrow."

As Leclerc left, Hogan's eyes began to glitter. LeBeau knew what that meant; his CO had come up with a plan.

"Gentlemen," Hogan began, "I think there is a simple solution to this problem. The café is hosting a billiard tournament here tomorrow night. The winner of this tournament will receive _The Portrait of Fallen Madonna_ as his prize. One of my men, Sergeant Newkirkberger is an experienced referee and he will ensure that the proceedings are fair."

Flick smiled; he must really know how to play. "I agree."

Von Strohm didn't seem so sure. But after his aide nodded, he said, "Gruber will enter on my behalf."

"The African player, Makabana, will be my champion," LeBeau announced. He trusted that Kinch would understand how important it was to win. Because he knew that he was going to spend the night in the kitchen cooking for everyone who came.

René, however, was beside himself. "Herr Lieutenant, this is not fair. As host, I could hardly participate in this tournament. So I've no chance of winning this prize."

Edith placed a hand on her husband's shoulder. "You may not be able to play, but I can. I will enter this tournament."

The Frenchman did not appear reassured by his wife's enthusiasm."My odds of winning are still the same."

Von Strohm rebuked the Frenchman, "Don't pout, René. The old man will be your champion; if he wins, you win."

The sarcasm was dripping as René replied, "You are very generous, Herr Colonel."

"I don't like this," Flick complained. "Why should this peasant get two chances of winning while I only have one? "

Helga came to attention. "I would like to compete in this tournament."

"Agreed," von Strohm and Flick said at the same time. They both clearly thought Helga would give the painting to them if she won.

"Then it is settled," Hogan said. "Now, what does one have to do to get a drink around here?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven: The Tournament**

René surveyed the room with a critical eye. Café René was practically unrecognizable with the tables cleared away and the billiard table from the back room brought in. Chairs were placed along the edges of the room, and the bar was fully stocked and ready. Yvette was busy cleaning some glasses while LeBeau set a table of delectable hors d'oeuvres for their guests to purchase. With the potential loss of _The Fallen Madonna_ looming over him, it was important that he make a hefty profit tonight, especially since their Allies had paid for all the supplies.

The bell rang as the front door opened and a British agent turned French policeman stepped inside. "Good moaning!" Crabtree said, completely oblivious to his mangled French or the fact that it was really evening.

René shared a look of exasperation with Yvette before faking a smile. "Good evening, officer. How may I help you?"

Crabtree pointed at the billiard table with his nightstick. "Grumbling is against the loo. I have to shit this cane down."

LeBeau's jaw dropped to the floor. "Is this man speaking French?"

"Only in his mind," René said.

"I'm a fraud that I cannot allow this tourniquet to proceed."

"But this tournament is a cover for a vital Allied operation!"

"Oh, in that cause, I will lick the other woo."

 _Thank, God!_ "Is that all, officer?"

Crabtree leaned in close. "I have a massage from Michelle. In two whores, the women disgeesed as onion soilers will be waiting in the back lolly for the British earmen."

René threw his hands up in air; his brain was too stressed to keep trying to make sense out of the nonsensical. "Speak English, you stupid fool! My new chef can translate."

"But it would be very bod if I brake my clover."

"You've already brokenyour _clover_ with your bad French."

"No won has ever comploned before."

René sighed in defeat. "Fine. Repeat your _massage_."

"I sod, in two whores, the women disgeesed as onion soilers will be waiting in the back lolly for the British earmen."

"Ah," Yvette said when she figured it out . "In two hours, the women disguised as onion sellers will be waiting in the back alley for the British airmen."

Crabtree tipped his hat to the lady. "Endued. I must be on my woo. It is a dick night and there may be many creaminals a boat."

LeBeau shook his head as Crabtree left the café. "Where did he come from?"

"From the masterminds at British Intelligence."

LeBeau shot his ally a look of sympathy. "I should have known."

* * *

Newkirk surveyed the café as he prepared for what he hoped would be his greatest performance yet. He was officially the tournament referee and announcer and unofficially, the one in charge of making sure these games played out exactly the way that Hogan wanted them to. And he would have to do all this while speaking German and pretending to be a loyal soldier of Fatherland. He rubbed his hands together in glee; now this was what he called a challenge!

Holding up his hands for silence, Newkirk began to speak; Gruber joined him and translated his words into French. "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Café René for our first annual Nouvion Billiard Tournament! We have a great competition for you tonight. Eight players will complete for the chance to win this award winning knockwurst sausage." Newkirk lifted the sausage containing _The Portrait of the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies_ high for those gathered to see.

"Please allow me to introduce our contestants: representing the victorious Fatherland are Lieutenant Hans Gruber, Private Helga Geerhart and Herr Otto Flick of the Gestapo. " The soldiers, who filled most of the café, gave a loud cheer; Helga and Gruber smiled, both clearly enjoying the attention. Gesturing to the other side of the room, Newkirk continued, "We also have the best Nouvion has to offer in Madame Edith Artois and Monsieur Ernst Leclerc." Some of the locals clapped politely while the Germans chuckled since neither of the French civilians looked like a threat. "Joining us from the Netherlands, those famous brothers, Gert and Dirk Addicks." The British airman waved, looking as confused as ever. "And finally, all the way from Africa, I give you, Makabana." Kinch smiled as the room fell silent. No one was sure what to make of the tall colored man standing in their midst.

Walking over to Colonel von Strohm, Newkirk placed his hands on the officer's shoulders. "Let's give a cheer for our Kommandant as he opens our tournament!"

Von Strohm raised his glass and said, "Play fair and may the best man win!"

Removing his magic fingers from the officer's pocket, Newkirk hid his prize and continued on with his speech. "Thank you, Colonel. Now our bracket was determined by chance." That was a lie; there was no way they were leaving anything up to chance. "And our first match pits Lieutenant Gruber against Gert Addicks. Gruber has won the toss and gets the first shot." That was another lie; hell would have to freeze over before he let the British airman embarrass himself trying to break. Not if they wanted to convince the crowd that Fairfax was semi-competent, let alone a professional.

The crowd cheered as Gruber chalked his cue stick and then leaned over to take his shot. _Crack!_

"What a break!" Newkirk cried out."We have a wizard with that stick as the four ball is in the hole. And he's claiming solids..."

* * *

The first match was in full swing when Hogan reached the bottom of the café's steps; he could already hear the cheers from the crowd. It looked like Gruber was winning, though Fairfax had cleared a few balls from the table. At least all the practice had done some good. But Hogan wasn't there to watch, because with everyone's attention on the match, no one would notice him and Carter sneak into the kitchen and out the back door.

Once in the kitchen, he spotted Schultz standing by the counter eating a pastry while LeBeau iced a cake. "Here," LeBeau called out as he tossed an object at his CO.

Hogan caught a set of keys belonging to Colonel von Strohm and quickly pocketed them. But when he moved toward the exit, Schultz stopped eating long enough to ask, "Where are you going?"

Hogan raised an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"

"You're up to monkey business. I can smell it."

"That's the cake," Carter said.

LeBeau set a bowl in front of their guard. "Schultz, do you want to lick the bowl?"

Schultz bristled as he pushed the bowl away. "No, I want to go back to Stalag Thirteen."

"So do we," Hogan said. "In fact, we were planning on leaving in the morning. But if you don't want us to go out tonight, we could stay a couple more days and find another time to ..."

Schultz grabbed the bowl, used a finger to get a great glob of icing and shoved it in his month as he said, " I hear nothing! I see nothing! I know nothing!"

* * *

Kinch grinned as people in the café gasped. He had just hit his third ball in a row into a pocket. He always enjoyed proving wrong the people who judged him. Lining up his next shot, he decided he had made his point. The balls hit but since his shot had lacked power, the target ball had only rolled forward an inch.

Stepping back, Kinch rechalked his cue stick while Leclerc stepped up to the table. The old man squinted as he studied the balls. His hands shook as he prepared to shoot. But when the cue hit the cue ball, his aim was true and the red ball rolled into the top left corner pocket. Leclerc's eyes grew wide as he said, "I did it!"

The crowd politely clapped, though a few people snickered. And when Leclerc scratched his next shot, the snickers turned to laughter. Kinch gave his opponent an encouraging smile as he picked up the cue ball and debated where to place it for his next shot. For he knew would be his best chance to execute his game plan.

Yes, he knew what he was going to do. The eleven and eight balls were near the right side pocket. Hitting one ball without hitting the other was going to be difficult, but he doubted that he would get a better angle for this shot than what he had now.

The crowd grew silent when they realized what Kinch was trying to do. He leaned over and worked the angles in his head. He could do this. Pulling back his cue, he quickly moved the stick forward and watched as the cue ball hit the eight ball and knocked it into pocket. A perfect shot.

That was a perfect shot for a man who wanted to lose.

The room gasped in unison and Leclerc grabbed a table for support, barely believing his eyes. Newkirk stepped forward to reset the table as he said, "Tough luck for our African competitor. The eight ball is in and Makabana has lost. Leclerc is the winner of this match and will play Lieutenant Gruber in the next round. Our next match, featuring Private Helga Geerhart and Dick Addickks, will commence in five minutes' time."

* * *

The streets of Nouvion were mostly empty when Hogan and Carter exited the café. The locals appeared to be obeying curfew while most of the off duty occupation forces were inside the building they had just left.

Carter glanced around as they walked. "So, sir, how do we know who this Blue Tit person is anyway?"

"We don't," Hogan said. "Blue Tit will contact us." Carter suddenly stopped and grabbed his CO's arm. Concerned, the officer asked, "What is it?"

"I think that...um...lady is approaching."

Hogan rolled his eyes when he noticed the woman Carter was talking about. She wore a revealing dress and swayed her hips as she approached them. He should have brought Newkirk. "Just don't go home with her and you'll be fine."

"But, boy, I mean, sir..."

Coming closer, she leaned in, showing off her ample bosom, but instead of whispering something about taking her up to their room, she said, "Cheerio, chaps. Pleasant seeing you bears out and about."

Hogan smiled; _she_ was Blue Tit! Maybe it was a good thing he was with Carter after all. One look at those legs and the Englishman would be good for nothing else the rest of the night. "Blue Tit?"

"Yes, my name is Michelle Dubois."

"Dubois! Any relation to..."

"Carter," Hogan interpreted. "Don't mind him." Then holding his arm, he said, "Come with me."

Michelle linked arms with him, causing Hogan's heart to beat faster. Finally, he met a beautiful woman who wasn't a Nazi or in love with René. The fact that she was a leader of the Résistance was just the icing on the cake.

"You're the boss," Michelle replied with a smile.

As they headed for their destination, there was one thing that bugged Hogan about their stunningly beautiful contact. Why was such an obviously French woman speaking with such a strong British accent?

* * *

LeBeau was silently fuming as Helga and Carstairs began their match. He couldn't believe it; Kinch had lost! Lost to an old man who could barely stand still without shaking. And on purpose, too! For when he had watched that eight ball roll into the pocket, he had no doubt that his friend had intentionally thrown the game.

So caught up in his anger, LeBeau barely even paid attention to Helga bending over to take her shot in her match against Carstairs - a sight that every other man in the café was studying with immense interest.

Working his way through the crowd, Kinch came up to the table of food and whispered, "LeBeau, do you have the food for our soon to be departed friends?"

The Frenchman tilted his head toward the kitchen and walked inside. He grabbed a small sack which contained breakfast for the airmen, but he refused to hand it over. "Tell me why I should give this to you."

Kinch sighed. "I know you wanted me to win, but we didn't travel to France to save a painting. The locals need to remain in this tournament as long as possible to provide cover for Colonel Hogan's mission."

"So we just let the Bosche sell the painting to Hitler without a fight?"

"Would you rather that we save the painting or save France?"

Handing over the food, LeBeau grumbled, "It's still not fair."

"No, it's not. But I wouldn't give up all hope. Remember, Newkirk is running the games."

* * *

Michelle had to admit that it was nice to be working with professionals for a change. Her girls were enthusiastic and excelled in blowing up trains and killing Germans, but intelligence operations were not their forte. For those missions, she was stuck with René - the biggest coward in the Résistance - even though the town of Nouvion considered him a hero. Men and their egos! But tonight, she was on the arm of a real hero who was not only competent but good looking as well.

When they were within sight of their occupiers' offices, Hogan stopped them and explained his plan. "Michelle, I need you to distract the guard so we can sneak inside. Can you handle that?

Could she handle a guard? Didn't he realize she was French? Gesturing at her outfit, Michelle said, "I assure you that I came dressed for the job."

Carter blushed. "Yes, ma'am, you certainly did."

Turning on her heel, Michelle put some swagger in her step as she approached the lone guard at the door. His eyes grew wide when he spotted her. She remained in his gaze as she leaned up against the wall next to him. "It's too beautiful of a night to be wasting it here. How'd you like to spend it with a beautiful woman?"

The soldier looked confused; clearly he did not speak French. However, that wouldn't be a problem. Grabbing a cigarette, she made a show of searching for her lighter. Not finding it, she shook the cigarette at him. "Do you have a light?"

The soldier understood that and smiled as he grabbed his lighter and held it out. Michelle leaned over for the light, making sure that the man got a good view of her breasts. Standing straight again, she said, "Thank you."

She turned and swayed her hips as walked away. Then turning her head back, she gestured with one finger for the guard to follow.

Five minutes later, she walked out of a nearby alley. Someone would find the bound and gagged guard in the morning. Since his wallet was missing, they'd assume that it was a simply robbery. No one would suspect that there a greater plan was at work in Nouvion.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: The Champion**

René needed a drink. Correct that, he needed several drinks. Because he wasn't sure which would be the more lopsided match of the night: Helga's decisive win against Carstairs or his wife's feeble attempts to compete against Herr Flick. The painting - _his_ painting - was as good as gone. Leclerc may have won his first match by default but there was no way that either of his champions were going to win him anything other than 'biggest laughingstock of the year'. Why had he let Hogan talk him into this plan?

The room burst into laughter when his wife shot the cue ball straight into a pocket without hitting any other balls. The German soldiers were finding a lot of amusement in the poor play of the players from conquered nations.

Gruber looked sympathetic as he walked up to the bar. "René, I must say, you are looking rather pale."

"It's this tournament. I fear the painting is going to end up in the hands of Herr Flick." _Or you_ , he added silently.

"Don't worry, René. I can beat him. I had quite the reputation back home, you know. Besides, I won't forget you when I win. After the war, I'll buy a little cottage by the coast and you can come over and we can..."

Not wanting to hear anymore of Gruber's romantic fantasies, René interrupted, "You are too kind, Lieutenant." Grabbing a decanter, he added, "Excuse me, I see someone who needs a drink."

Moving toward the billiard table, René watched his wife miss another shot. While Herr Flick took his turn, he walked over to his wife. "Edith," he hissed, "the balls go in the pockets."

Edith poked him with her cue stick. "If you had any balls, you'd be competing."

René squirmed under his wife's gaze. Her words had hurt, mostly because they were right. But was it so greedy to just want to get out of this war with both his life and a small fortune? Hadn't he earned that much at least?

* * *

The second round of the tournament began with Lieutenant Gruber and Monsieur Leclerc facing one another, but Kinch was not going to have time to watch the match. Making his way through the crowd, he walked over to where the British Airmen were currently enjoying a drink. Leaning close, he whispered, "It's time."

Carstairs nodded and Fairfax opened his mouth, but quickly shut it when he remembered that he was supposed to be silent. The two men followed Kinch into the back room which was, thankfully, empty.

Kinch hurried over to the window and glanced outside. True to the Résistance's word, there were three women standing outside with necklaces of onions around their necks. It was an odd disguise but he trusted that the locals knew what worked in Nouvion.

Handing the bag of food to Fairfax, Kinch said, "Those women outside will take you to a safe house. Stay hidden until morning. We'll pick you up on our way back to Germany."

Carstairs frowned. "We're going to Germany?"

Kinch smiled. "Just a little detour on the way to England." The two airmen shot worried glances at one another, but the American ignored them and instead pushed open the large window and stepped outside. The women immediately reacted to his presence, hands moving to their waists; Kinch froze - they were armed! Holding up his hands, he said, "I'm with Nighthawk."

The woman closest nodded, but she didn't move her hand. "The airmen?"

Poking his head back through the window, Kinch hissed, "Come on out." When the women spotted the airmen they relaxed - slightly. "Escort them to the safe house."

"What?" Fairfax asked.

Kinch turned back to the airmen and pointed. "Go with them."

Carstairs grinned. "Gladly."

The temptation to roll his eyes was overwhelming but Kinch resisted as he watched the female fighters lead the airmen away. He was beginning to understand why the locals were having so much trouble getting rid of those two. Well, at least they were now safely out of the way.

Reentering the café, Kinch closed the window and headed for the main room as a loud cheer reverberated throughout the building. It sounded as if someone had just won a match. Stepping into the main room, many people were laughing as they clapped and cheered, while others just stared at the billiard table in shock. Following those glances, Kinch saw Leclerc grasping the table for support as he grinned from ear to ear. On the other side of the table, Gruber looked like someone had just crashed his little tank.

Kinch didn't know how, or what trickery or sleight of hand had been employed, but he did know who was responsible for this shocking state of affairs and joined in on the applause. _Way to go, Newkirk!_ For Leclerc had just won his second match of the night.

* * *

 _Click. Click._ Hogan quickly snapped two photos before setting the paper to the side and repeating his actions on the next one. On the other side of the room, Carter was busy photographing the large map on the wall. They needed to be quick, but efficient. This would be their only shot at this.

Carter hurried over. "Got it, sir."

Finishing up on the last couple of papers, Hogan ended his task as well. The two POWs moved swiftly to return everything to where they had found it and then they left as silently as they had entered.

* * *

Helga leaned over the billiard table as she eyed the cue ball and the ball at the point of the triangle. She was very determined to make this break. Shifting her feet as she got into position, a loud whistle filled the café, but Helga ignored it. She had learned a long time ago not to let those things bother her but instead to use them to her advantage. Especially, when her opponent was a very jealous man.

Flick slammed the butt of his cue stick on the floor and shouted, "There will be no whistling at the lady privates!"

A few brave souls sniggered, only to be further reprimanded by Colonel von Strohm. "Any soldier caught making inappropriate sounds or remarks will be put on report."

Now Helga was the one holding back a snigger. Those words were just slightly ironic considering that Yvette was currently sitting in the man's lap. But she wasn't going to dwell on that and instead took her shot with some force. The balls scattered all over the table and two balls - the two and nine balls - went into pockets. Looking over the positions of the rest of the balls, she announced, "Stripes."

Flick looked impressed and came close to her as she prepared for her next turn. "Remember, Helga, it is important that I win this tournament."

"Yes, Herr Flick."

"Don't listen to him, Private," von Strohm said. "I order you to win."

Figuring it would be nice to win so that she would have control over the painting rather than trying to convince a bunch of men that she deserved a share of the profits, Helga gave her best effort and sunk her next two shots, before missing her third.

Flick was not happy when his turn finally came. But Helga needed every ounce of her early lead since he made his next four shots. He really was good at this game. Well, she would have to be better.

Taking her turn, Helga watched the fifteen ball roll right into a pocket. They were now tied. Each player had two balls on the table, along with the eight ball. There was no room for error now.

With fewer balls on the table, the shots became more difficult as the two competitors traded turns until only the eight ball remained. Helga stepped forward to take her shot.

Flick was staring at her with his best intimidating glare; it was so exhilarating. "If you win," he said, "I will be forced to punish you severely."

Helga smiled and her heart beat faster in anticipation. "I look forward to it, Herr Flick." But just as she pulled back her cue, she received a sharp pinch in her derrière. She jumped and dropped her cue stick but not before it had struck the cue ball, causing her ball to roll forward.

Twirling around, she stared into the face of her opponent. "You cheated!"

Flick shrugged. "I am a member of the Gestapo. What did you expect? Fair play?"

In desperation, she shot a look at the referee who shrugged as if to say he didn't see anything. Of course he didn't; few men stood up to Herr Flick.

Helga seethed but she knew that she wouldn't remain angry for long. Flick liked to play dirty and she had to admit that it was one of his more attractive attributes. So when Flick won the game, she congratulated him on his play with a smile. Because, when men were involved, there was always more than one way to win the ultimate prize.

* * *

Back on the streets on Nouvion, Carter grinned. They'd done it. Sneaking into the General's office and out again had been as easy as cake! Though movement to his right made him fall back into character again. But when the figure stepped out into the light, Carter blushed; Michelle was back and that dress... Well, it wasn't the type of dress girls back home wore, that was for sure!

"Got the pictures?" she asked. When Hogan nodded, she ordered, "Let's scarper."

Carter began walking briskly and the others followed behind. "You know, it's a shame we couldn't spend more time here. This is my first time in France and I must say, ma'am, that you have a beautiful country. I always wanted to go to Paris, and I think we could get a lot of intelligence there if we wanted to. Don't you think so, sir? And we could see the Eiffel Tower! Do you think it is really as big as it appears in the photos?"

Silence was the only response to Carter's questions. Looking back over his shoulder, he quickly discovered the reason why. Turning his head back to the front, Carter murmured, "Some people really need to learn to get a room."

* * *

It was a match of David against Goliath. Leclerc versus Flick. An old French man who could barely hold onto his cue stick without shaking against an officer of the Gestapo. But all was not lost, for like David, Leclerc had a helper assisting him in his battle.

 _Oops,_ Newkirk thought as he caused the table to shake slightly just as Herr Flick took his shot. The cue ball missed its target and bounced against the far wall before coming to a halt. "Tough luck," he said as he grabbed one of Flick's balls and placed it back on the table. "Flick scratches and it is Leclerc's turn."

Stepping back, Newkirk watched Leclerc prepare to take his shot. The Frenchman wasn't a horrible player. When his eyes and hands cooperated, he was capable of sinking his shots. Unfortunately, his age meant those moments weren't all that frequent.

When play switched back to Flick, Newkirk glanced at his watch. What was taking Colonel Hogan so long? All his CO and Carter were doing was photographing a few papers and maps. However, he didn't dare allow the game come to an end until he knew that everyone was safely back at the café. Suddenly the answer came to him: the Résistance had sent a bird. This was going to have to call for desperate measures. A bird could cause his CO to be delayed for ... well, if it had been him, several hours probably. Maybe the whole night, if he got lucky.

Newkirk was mulling over several delaying tactics over in his mind when LeBeau came over and handed him a cognac while slipping von Strohm's keys into his pocket. "Colonel Hogan has returned."

"About bloody time."

"You should have seen the girl..." LeBeau whistled softly.

Newkirk hated it when he was right; some people got all the luck.

Downing the glass, he handed it back to his friend and watched as Herr Flick hit the two ball into a pocket. It was a nice shot. And as the cue ball rolled to a stop, the Englishman recognized that he wasn't going to get a better chance to act. Flick was in the perfect position to go for the five ball, which meant the cue ball should roll right by the eight...

Grabbing his secret weapon, Newkirk moved around the table until he stood beside the left center pocket and placed a strong magnet underneath the table; the black ball wiggled a little in response to the magnet's pull. Flick took his shot and the cue ball safely speed past the eight ball, but Newkirk dragged the magnet underneath the table straight toward the center pocket. The crowd gasped as the eight ball fell into the hole, and Newkirk had no doubt that the crowd would convince themselves that the cue ball had brushed the eight, resulting in the game ending mistake.

"The eight ball is in the hole!" Newkirk cried. "Monsieur Leclerc is the champion of the first annual Nouvion Billiard Tournament!" As the crowd cheered, he discretely switched out the doctored eight ball for the real one so no one would realize what he had done.

The old man looked like he was about to faint. "I won? I won!"

Flick was beside himself. "Foul! That was a blatant foul! I was jostled on my shot," the German lied.

"I am sorry, Herr Flick, but you lost, fair and square."

"And you call yourself a loyal solider of the Fatherland," the Gestapo man sneered, the threat obvious.

Colonel von Strohm laughed. "Don't be a sore loser. It sets a bad example for the peasants."

Newkirk snickered as the Gestapo officer turned on his heel and limped away. Flick couldn't hurt a man who would be gone in the morning. Besides, he needed to return the keys. Then maybe he could spend some quality time with one of the local girls walking around...

* * *

René could hardly believe his eyes or his ears or anything - Leclerc had won! _Leclerc_ had won! Which meant that the painting - _his_ painting - would stay in the café! His retirement fund was secure. He had to give Hogan credit, he hadn't been sure about his allies, but they had come through when it had mattered. The painting was his, the British airmen were gone, and valuable military intelligence would be sent to London so the British could finally make up for their cowardice at Dunkirk and start winning this war. Plus, LeBeau's cooking meant that his till was quite full.

This night was turning out to be one of the best nights of the war.

"René!"

René jumped when he spotted Herr Flick coming toward him."Can I help you, Herr Flick?"

Flick's eyes flickered dangerously as he leaned onto the bar. "I want you to understand that this changes nothing. You will continue to hide _The Portrait of the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies_ in the sausage with the little swastika on it. After the war, you will return it to me so I can sell it. If you do not do this, I will have you shot."

"Of course, Herr Flick. I would never betray the trust shown to me by the Gestapo."

"See that you don't." Then turning, Flick called out as he limped toward the door, "Helga! Attend to me."

"Yes, Herr Flick," Helga said as she followed the Gestapo officer out.

Wiping his forehead, René sighed in relief. One crisis over. But a shout from across the room told him that he wasn't done.

"René," von Strohm called out as he gestured for more wine. As the Frenchman poured, the Kommandant added, "You know this changes nothing. The painting will stay hidden in a sausage your cellar. The forged painting, the one that Herr Flick believes is the real one, will continue to be hidden in your kitchen. After the war, you will return the real one to me so I can sell it. If you do not do this, I will have you shot."

"Of course, Herr Colonel. I would never betray your trust."

"Good. Come, Gruber, we must be off."

Gruber grabbed his hat and looked back at the man he loved. "Goodnight, René. I must thank you for a wonderful tournament. We must do this again sometime."

René squirmed under the attention. "Goodnight."

Once they were out the door, René returned to the bar and poured himself a celebratory drink. He wasn't going to let Flick's or von Strohm's threats put a damper on the evening. Because, after all, making promises to the Germans that he never intended to keep was just part of being French.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine: The Return**

Fanny La Fan was not a happy woman. She did not like being confined to bed, she did not like being alone and she did not like being ignored. And she was not afraid to make her displeasure known.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._ She pounded her cane on the floor hoping for someone to hear, to come, to care. It wasn't easy being an old woman. _Bang. Bang. Bang._ "Does nobody hear the cries of a poor old woman?"

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door to her attic room opened and her daughter stepped inside. Edith was carrying a bowl which she set down on the table. "Mama, I brought you some soup."

"Bah, soup! Where have you been and why does nobody visit me anymore?"

"I told you. We've been busy. The Americans were here and they..."

Fanny forced herself to sit up. "Americans! Why did they not visit me?"

"Because they were disguised as Germans."

Fanny spat. "Germans!" She may be old but she'd never lose the strength to insult those who dared think they could conquer her country.

With the patience of a daughter long used to her mother's eccentricity, Edith continued on, "As I was saying, the Americans were here and now they've left and taken the British airmen with them."

The British airmen were gone; Fanny liked the sound of that. Maybe now her daughter and her worthless son-in-law would finally have time for her. "The British airmen are really gone?"

"Yes, Mama. They're gone - for good."

* * *

Hogan was ready to throw up his hands in frustration when his men returned from exploring an abandoned barn - alone.

Carter looked worried as he said, "They're not here, boy, I mean, sir.

Hogan couldn't believe his ears. "What do you mean they're not here?"

"They're gone, mon Colonel," LeBeau explained.

"We checked the yard," Newkirk added. "No sign of them."

Hogan rubbed his forehead. "Something must be off. Are we sure this is the right barn?"

"Positive," Kinch said, looking up from the map. "We followed the directions exactly."

Hogan gritted his teeth. They were running out of time. They needed to be back at Stalag Thirteen tonight. Klink could only hold out for so long. They didn't have time to search the French countryside for the two missing airmen. He needed to make a decision. Taking a deep breath, Hogan ordered, "Back in the truck."

"What?" Carter exclaimed. "We can't leave them!"

"I don't like it either, but for all we know, the airmen could be miles from here. They'll have to find another way home."

* * *

On the other side of the road, Fairfax poked his head out of a bush as he watched Hogan and his men search the barn where they were supposed to be hiding.

Beside him, Carstairs asked, "Do you think we're making the right decision?"

"Of course we are. We don't want to go to Germany. We want to go to England. And Kinch said they were going to take us to Germany."

Fairfax felt a twinge of guilt at deceiving their allies as he uttered those words, but it went away quickly. He had experienced many indignities since being shot down, but he had no desire to get trapped in Germany. No, if he couldn't be in England, he was going to stay in France. The weather and the food were nicer, for one thing.

"Right," Carstairs agreed as their allies drove off. "Now what do we do?"

* * *

LeBeau closed his eyes and tried to let the swaying of the truck lull him to sleep. They'd been traveling for several hours and he didn't want to think about the fact that every kilometer was taking him further and further away from the homeland he loved. He was failing miserably.

However, the other occupants of their vehicle were quite happy about their return to Germany. Especially Schultz, who cried out in delight when he inspected the contents of a sack. "How thoughtful; you packed a snack."

Newkirk chuckled. "You call an entire knockwurst sausage a snack!"

LeBeau sat up; _did someone say sausage?_ "Don't eat that!" he shouted as he lunged for Schultz's 'snack'.

Schultz pulled it back. "I'm hungry."

"You can't..." LeBeau hesitated. He needed an excuse and fast.

Unfortunately, someone else put two and two together and before he could come up with an explanation, Hogan slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a halt. Turning around, the officer stared at the item of contention with a look of worry on his face. "LeBeau, please tell me that is not the sausage containing _The Portrait of the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies._ "

"This sausage is not the sausage containing _The Portrait of the Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies_ ," LeBeau answered truthfully.

"Then why am I not reassured?"

"Well, he did lie about the taking the painting of _The Boy with the Fife_ when it went missing from Klink's office." Carter said.

After taking the sausage out of Schultz's hands, Kinch carefully broke the casing. "There's a canvas hidden in here."

"LeBeau..." Hogan growled.

"I didn't lie."

"You didn't lie! What are the odds that there were two priceless works of art hidden in sausages in a random café in France?"

"Pretty good, sir," Kinch said after unrolling the canvas.

Newkirk snorted when he looked at the artwork. "What's so impressive about a painting of some flowers?"

Offended for the artist, LeBeau said haughtily, "It's the portrait of the _Cracked Vase with the Big Daisies_ by Vincent van Gogh."

Hogan's jaw dropped. "You stole a van Gogh!"

"I didn't steal it! I saved it! I'll send it to my friends in Paris who will see that it is placed in a museum after the war."

"Naughty, naughty," Schultz said. "It's not nice to take things that don't belong to you."

"Tell that to Hitler and his goons who took my whole country."

Carter shrugged. "He does have a point."

Hogan was clearly not happy about the turn of events, but it was also obvious that he didn't want to return to Nouvion. "No one saw you grab that?"

"No one," LeBeau answered.

Hogan restarted the truck. "You better hope our allies never realize you took it."

LeBeau smiled; he knew when he'd won. "They'll never miss it."

And perhaps the strangest thing out of all the crazy things that had happened on this mission was that their allies in Nouvion never did.

* * *

René moaned as he felt Yvette's firm bosom pressed against his body. "My little carrot."

"My big broccoli," she breathed seductively into his ear.

"My little lettuce."

"My enormous cucumber."

"My..." René's voice trailed off when he heard a loud rap on the window. Looking up, he saw a sight that was going to haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. Michelle was standing in the window. And she was not alone.

Disentangling himself from Yvette, René tried not to panic. He could pretend he hadn't heard, that he hadn't seen. He was going to walk right out of the back room and pay Michelle no mind. Hadn't he risked enough for the Résistance? No, he was not going let himself get dragged into this mess again.

Unfortunately, Michelle saved René from making his own decision by letting herself in. Then looking over her shoulder, she said to the two British Airmen, "Come on in, chaps."

Wringing his apron between his hands, René asked, "What are they doing here?"

Michelle rolled her eyes. "My girls found them wandering on the road. It seems they were hiding on the wrong side of the road."

Yvette shook her head. "The British can't do anything right."

The news that the British were idiots was not new. But this didn't answer his pressing question. "But why are they _here_?"

"They will hide in the café until we can return them to England," Michelle said.

"No!" He would be firm. "They can't stay here. They're Hogan's problem now. Let him deal with them."

"Impossible," Michelle declared. "Hogan has returned to Germany. They will have to stay here." And before René could protest further, she added, "If you don't take them, I'll be forced to leave them to their own devices. And when they are captured, how long do you think it will take for the Germans to learn where they have been hiding all this time?"

René sighed; he knew when he'd lost. The British Airmen were here to stay.

* * *

Colonel Klink was not a happy man. While he was grateful that his missing prisoners and guard had returned to Stalag Thirteen, it was an absolute disgrace that they'd gone on a joyriding trip to France for four days! Four days! And now Hogan had the audacity to stand in his office with a grin on his face and his men lined up in a straight line behind him, acting like nothing was wrong.

Well, he would show the American who was in charge of this camp!

Grabbing his notes, Klink read in his best authoritarian voice, "Colonel Hogan, you and your men are charged with failure to carry out a work assignment, escape, stealing a camp truck, corrupting a guard, joyriding and visiting a restricted area." Slamming his paper on his desk, Klink leaned forward. "You didn't think I'd discover that you went to France, did you?"

"What can I say?" Hogan shrugged. "LeBeau was homesick."

Klink gritted his teeth; he would ignore the American sarcasm. "Do you have anything to say before I announce your punishment?"

"Yes, sir," Hogan said. "To punish my men and me would be a gross miscarriage of justice. Especially since Sergeant Schultz was just trying to follow your orders."

Schultz frowned from where he was standing by the door. "I was?"

"On the morning we left you, you were distinctly heard ordering Sergeant Schultz to quote 'Get them out of my hair.' Now, Schultz took this order to heart and devised a plan to not only remove us from your presence for several days but to ensure that we would return to camp thoroughly cowed."

Schultz began to nod. "Yes, I did."

Klink couldn't believe his ears. "You expect me to believe that you and your men are cowed?"

Hogan looked at his feet. "The things we saw were devastating, sir."

"All those soldiers on the coast," Kinch said, "I don't know how the Allies will ever break through."

Carter hung his head in shame. "There was barbed wire and cannons and antiaircraft. No one is going to beat an army like that, no siree."

Newkirk glanced at Klink with a pleading look in his eye. "You must show England some mercy, sir, when you invade. Back home, we don't know just how powerful you are. But we'll learn, I promise you, we'll learn."

"Dirty Bosche," LeBeau spat. "They stole everything not nailed down, walked around like they owned France..." Hogan shot the Frenchman a warning look. "...which they do own now, sir. I can see we have no choice but to hope that our conquerors will be gracious."

Klink was grinning. "You gentlemen just saw a glimpse of the glory to come with the Thousand Year Reich! No country can stand against our superior military might."

Hogan winced. "Now you're just rubbing it in, sir."

"Schultz," Klink ordered, "return these prisoners to the barracks."

Schultz saluted; relief clearly evidence on his features. "Yes, Herr Kommandant."

But as the prisoners turned to leave, a sudden feeling of dread filled Klink as an item of information finally clicked into place - the prisoners saw the coastal defense! "Wait!"

Then marching over to his sergeant of the guard, he demanded, "Schultz, it this true what they said? You took the _prisoners_ to the coast?"

Schultz 's eyes grew wide and he looked to Hogan as he stumbled over his words. "I...they..."

"Yes, we saw the coast and the defensives and it was ..." Hogan paused as he shook his head.

Klink felt like he going to faint. This couldn't be real. If his superiors discovered that his prisoners had visited such a restricted area, he'd be sent to the Russian Front, or shot or both! No, there was only one thing he could do to fix this. "I order you all to forget about what you saw. This trip never happened. And if you even think you can share what you learned, remember, no one ever escapes from Stalag Thirteen."

Hogan considered that for a moment. "Sir, we've been cowed. We know Germany has the best military and, when the other men see us, they will want to know why."

"I order you to not act cowed."

Kinch asked, "You mean, sir, you want us to pretend that Germans aren't superior?"

"Yes," Klink shouted.

"It'll be hard, sir," Carter said, "but I guess we can try to forgot. But your military was so big and so scary."

"Think of all your friends back home still fighting," Klink pleaded.

Newkirk responded to that. "Me mates will never give up!"

LeBeau shook a fist in the air. "Viva la France!"

Hogan held out his hand. "It's a deal, Kommandant. We will pretend we aren't cowed and no one will ever know that you sent us on a trip to see the French coast."

Klink shook the offered hand and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was back to normal and his superiors would never need to know about this little bump in the road. His job and his neck were safe - for now. "Dismissed."

The POWs shuffled out the door, but Hogan paused in the door frame and then turned back around. "You know Kommandant, you should really think of taking a leave yourself. You look like you could use a vacation."

Klink couldn't believe his ears! How dare the officer suggest such a thing! But before he could articulate a response, Hogan was gone. Sinking back into this chair, Klink decided against running after the POW. It wouldn't be dignified and, besides, Hogan was right: he did need a vacation. However, one thing was certain: he wasn't going to France. For his next leave, he was going to Switzerland!


End file.
